


I Fell In Love In A Dream

by LayALioness



Series: Find Your Dream [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mermaid Bellamy, Mermaid Octavia, essentially an aquamarine fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4442078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once he’s safely inside, Raven turns to Clarke, eyes bright and knowing. “I was wrong earlier,” she decides. “You don’t have a thing for the mermaid; you have a thing for mermaids, generally. Weird kink, dude.”<br/>Clarke shrugs, still a little dazed by Bellamy’s existence. She’s pretty sure her hair smells like him, now. Like saltwater and oranges. “They’re hot,” she defends, and Raven shrugs.<br/>“You’re totally having a fish baby,” she declares, leading the way back into town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Fell In Love In A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I fully blame kindclaws for this.
> 
> The internet here is shaky at best, but I'll try to get up my belated Bellarke Week fics by the end of the week. In the mean time, here, have some mermaids! The plot is basically Aquamarine, that one Disney channel movie with Emma Roberts before she was famous. You know the one.
> 
> title from We Move Like the Ocean by Bad Suns, obvs.

When Clarke is fourteen years old, she meets Raven Reyes over the summer. Clarke moves to Florida so her parents can look after her elderly grandmother, and Raven’s mom works as a cleaning lady at her grandmother’s country club.

They meet when Clarke is wandering along the beach, searching for sea glass—her dad promised to help her turn the shards into a mosaic birdhouse, like one she saw in a magazine—and a boy pretends to be drowning.

Clarke took a lifeguarding class, and CPR, every summer up in Connecticut—mostly because her mom is a doctor and wanted her to be prepared, but also because it gave her something to talk about when school started back up in the autumn. So she drops her bucket, kicks off her flip flops, and takes off towards the flailing guy that just went underwater.

Obviously, she doesn’t know that he’s pretending, at the time.

She gets into the water, snatches at his arm, and is about to haul him back to shore, when he pops his head out, spits some water at her, and grins. She stares at him at first—he’s attractive, in an objective sort of way—with long brown hair to his shoulders and plastered against his face and neck, brown skin, and a nose red by the sun. He looks like the sort of boy that’s probably popular, and easy to like. Clearly he’s the practical jokester.

Clarke is a late bloomer in puberty, sort of awkward with her own limbs, and wearing a bathing suit that’s a little too small because she hasn’t had time to buy a new one. She’s also a little sure she hasn’t shaved well enough, and her toenail polish is old and chipped. That doesn’t seem like it should matter so much, but suddenly she’s worried about it.

“I’m Finn,” the boy says cheerily.

“Okay,” Clarke says, still a little confused as to why anyone would pretend to drown, just to strike up a conversation in the ocean.

Finn smiles at her, clearly amused. “You’re cute,” he observes. “This is the part where you tell me your name,” he adds helpfully.

“No,” Clarke decides, as her own irritation finally sinks in. He was pretending to _drown_. “This is the part where I tell you faking your own drowning is a stupid thing to do.” Then she swims back to the beach without a word, using the fancy breaststroke her lifeguard coach taught her the year before, to show off a little.

Raven is on the beach when she walks back up, with her flip flops and half-filled bucket of sea glass by her brown, scabby knees. She’s wearing a pair of boys’ gym shorts, and a threadbare sweatshirt, which doesn’t seem at all like appropriate beach attire, but she seems comfortable and not at all self-conscious about it, so. Clarke eyes her, before sitting down on the other side of her things. Sand sticks to her wet skin and swimsuit, and she tries not to care. She likes the water, but she could do without the sand—each year after visiting her grandma, she’d still be washing sand from her hair and between her toes in December.

“That was badass,” Raven declares, nodding out to where Finn is still treading water, squinting out at them in confusion. “He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees.

“He’s also my boyfriend,” Raven adds, and then grimaces. “Was my boyfriend,” she corrects. “We broke up yesterday.”

“Good for you,” Clarke says, completely serious. She’s only known Raven for five minutes and she already likes her; she can only imagine how much better off she is without the guy who fakes drowning so he can hit on girls.

Raven grins, a little feral. “I like you,” she decides, standing up and wiping the sand from the butt of her shorts. She’s wearing an oversized pair of flip flops, a dull gray with the right’s plastic prongs held together with packaging tape. “Wanna hang out? I can score us some free wheelchairs.”

She leads Clarke to the country club, which she recognizes from dozens of summers spent playing Parcheesi and Chinese checkers with her grandma and the other elderly women in the game room.

They steal the wheelchairs from a storage closet, and manage to race them down five different hallways before they’re given a stern glare from an employee and escorted from the premises. Neither of them feels very bad about it.

“I’m gonna spend the summer trying to get kicked out once a week, for something different each time,” Raven explains. They’re walking up and down the beach, searching for sea glass for Clarke’s collection. She kicks at a bit of red poking up through the sand, but it’s a bottle cap.

Clarke digs at something that turns out to be a Pale Ale bottle. She pulls back her hair, knotted and briny from the ocean, and squints up at her. “Want some help with that?”

Raven grins.

They spend the summer like that—digging through the beach sand during the cooler hours of the morning and evening, before the packs of tourist mob the space with Disney Princess beach towels and rainbow umbrellas. They manage to get kicked out of the country club every week—sometimes three days in a row. Sometimes for renting skates at the rec shop down the boardwalk and rolling down the lobby; sometimes for drawing on the walls in Bic multicolor markers—“Your mermaid was a goddamned masterpiece,” Raven declared once the door shut behind them. “They should have thanked you. Or _paid_ you, damn.”—sometimes for stealing all the raisins in that day’s Tapioca.

Sometimes they spend all day in the screened-in porch of Clarke’s house. Her parents let her move the day bed out onto the deck, so she and Raven can pull the mattresses down on the floor when it’s too muggy to do anything but lie there. Raven brings over an old broken record player that one of the old women at the club let her have, and tinkers with it for an entire afternoon until it sounds brand new. Clarke’s dad fawns over it, and Raven, and digs out his record collection from his college years. There’s a lot of Aretha Franklin and Simon & Garfunkel. They blast music and dance stupidly until their neighbor calls the house phone and begs Abby to make them stop.

Sometimes they spend the day at Raven’s, and make three boxes of pizza rolls and then climb up the ancient rose trellis left over from the house’s last tenants, and sprawl out like starfish on the roof to work on their tans, and snack. Clarke mostly just burns, then peels and burns some more, while Raven gets so dark that the whites of her teeth and eyes are a little startling. Clarke’s pretty sure that’s what she’s going for.

On the second-to-last day of August—because school starts the day before September, which Clarke has never really understood—the girls are laying on a single mattress, eating Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia straight from the carton. Raven’s taking apart a Rubik’s Cube so she can put it back together inside-out, and Clarke is finger painting ball gowns onto the dolphins of an old Lisa Frank folder that she plans to use in class tomorrow.

The Griffin’s had been all set to send Clarke to the fancy private school just a forty minute drive from their upper-middle-class suburban neighborhood, but halfway through the summer she’d walked into the kitchen during breakfast and said “I want to go to public school.”

Her mom looked ready to argue, but her dad just shrugged and said, “Well, it’s definitely cheaper,” and winked.

Clarke’s been feeling nervous pretty much all week because, while Raven hasn’t been acting different, Clarke isn’t used to her summer friendships extending through to the fall, and then past that. Her summers have always been spent in a sort of alternate reality, eighteen hours away from her actual life. Now that the two have merged, she’s a little unsure how to manage it.

She doesn’t _want_ to lose Raven, but. It feels kind of inevitable.

“Nice,” she says, nodding to the cube, fully intact with its plain black insides on show. Raven smirks proudly.

“Right?” she chirps. “I’m gonna bet Wick twenty bucks he can’t solve it. Then, I’ll have twenty bucks, _and_ solid evidence that I am better than him.”

“I thought you already had that,” Clarke points out.

Kyle Wick lives a few blocks over from Raven, in a decidedly _nice_ part of town, but that doesn’t really ever stop either of them from bickering like kids. Apparently they have an ongoing war regarding who’s fundamentally _better_ , stemming from their preschool days. Clarke’s pretty sure it’s just their inept version of flirting, but. She’s never really flirted, ineptly or otherwise, so what does she know?

She’s met Wick a few times. They shared a bagel, once. She likes him, not that she’ll ever tell that to Raven, even though she’s like ninety-nine percent sure Raven likes him too.

“Oh, I do,” Raven agrees. “But, you know what they say; more is _always_ better.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how it goes,” Clarke says, but Raven just shrugs. “Hey, so. Um. We’re going to the same school, tomorrow.”

Raven raises a brow at her. She’s a year older than Clarke, which makes her a sophomore, but when Clarke—awkwardly—asked if she had any other friends, she’d only said “It was always Finn,” which. Clarke sort of hates Finn. Raven had been half in love with him her whole life, and he’d broken up with her just before he entered high school, because he _wanted to keep his options open_ , whatever that means.

He and Raven are still sort of friends, somehow, and they’ve all hung out a few times over the summer. For Clarke and Finn, who really only knew each other from that first day on the beach, it was insanely awkward. Raven mostly just played Zelda and made fun of how terrible at it they were.

“If you’re asking for pointers on how to win at high school, I have none,” Raven says dryly.

Clarke flushes. “No, I just. We’re still going to hang out, right? Like, at school. Not just after?”

Raven softens a little, and hits Clarke in the nose with her spoon, still sticky with ice cream. “Don’t be an idiot, Griffin,” she says. “Who else am I gonna gloat to when I beat Wick at basically everything?”

She’s right, as usual; Clarke was being an idiot. Everything’s going to be fine.

Clarke manages to pass all her classes, including AP Bio to make her mom feel better about the whole public school thing, and AP Physics, mainly so she can build cool things out of Popsicle sticks with her dad. She and Raven still sleep on the daybed on her porch, and suntan on Raven’s roof, and kick Finn’s ass at Zelda, and go bowling with Wick’s bowling team.

Wick has a bowling team. It’s sponsored by his dad’s rental car shop, and also the Jordan’s funeral home, so their icon is a coffin-shaped Monster Truck. They wear leather jackets like in _Grease_ , with _Ark Lanes: Ride or Die Strike Crew_ , which seems a little intense for a bowling team. But they always let Raven and Clarke play in their set for free, and Monty’s mother’s cousin’s friend works the counter, so they get the cleanest shoes. Monty Green is somehow related to pretty much everyone in the west side of Ark County, and manages to get family discounts on basically everything.

Wick manages to get his team’s picture into the yearbook, and Clarke and Raven had been there that day, so they’re in the background. Clarke is barely visible—her forehead, messy curls, and a little bit of her left eye; but Raven is clear, with Wick’s arm slung sloppily around her shoulders while she tries to stick a French fry up his nose.

Clarke’s halfway through her junior year; it’s the early afternoon, and she and Raven are in the game room of the country club, playing chess and trying to spin their chairs around discretely. Clarke feels a little bad about never visiting her grandmother when they visit the club, but she has a pretty severe case of Alzheimer’s, and always thinks Clarke is the French maid she had as a girl. She’s constantly barking at Clarke to pick up all her sweaters, and then asking what they’re having for dinner. It’s more than a little uncomfortable.

“Checkmate,” Raven says apathetically, and Clarke rolls her eyes. Raven’s just been switching her pawns around the board for her last five turns. She doesn’t know how to actually play chess, and refuses to let Clarke teach her, preferring to just wing it. She says _checkmate_ a lot, even though she’s never even close.

“That’s a rook,” Clarke points. “It can’t move diagonally. You’re thinking of the bishop.”

“If he gets to the edge, he turns into the Pope, right?” Raven asks, and it’s only through years of friendship that Clarke knows she’s being sarcastic.

Clarke scowls. “You chose this game,” she reminds her.

“Only because it’s so easy to piss you off with,” Raven chirps, flicking her own king over.

“Damn,” she sighs. “Foiled again.”

Clarke sighs back, setting the board back up for the next players. She still has an essay to write on _All Quiet on the Western Front_ , but she read the book last summer, so she’s planning to rush through it sometime that night.

No one was more surprised than Clarke was, to find out she’s a procrastinator. She used color-coded notes in middle school. She wrote papers in her spare time, three months before the due dates. She read an SAT-prep book when she was eleven.

She also had no friends, except for Wells, and he moved to Reno after his mom died when they were twelve. They tried being pen pals for the first few months, but apparently he’s better at meeting people than she is. She only knew Wells because they met in a baby gymnastics class, which she’s pretty sure doesn’t count since she didn’t even have object permanence.

Raven yawns and stretches like a cat, spine popping audibly from beneath her ratty hoody. Raven pretty much always dresses like a white, twenty-something drug dealer. She looks like a cast member from _Breaking Bad_. With admittedly great hair. And skin, and teeth. Also, she’s sort of a genius, so Clarke figures that probably gets her a pass.

She’s a senior in high school, with her graduation date rapidly approaching, and Clarke is actively not freaking out about it. The only person not freaking out about it even more than her is Raven herself. Maybe Wick.

“I’m thinking Dominoes,” Raven says happily, but before she can hop up to get the box, someone clears their throat beside their table.

Marcus Kane originally started the senior citizens’ wing of the club for his elderly mother Vera. He’s polite enough, he treats customers and patients alike with care, and is good to his workers. Clarke would want him to look after her when she’s old enough for Depends, if that wouldn’t be weird, and he was probably dead. So she wants someone _like_ him to look after her. Maybe he has a daughter.

“Girls,” he greets pleasantly, but pointed. Clarke tries to think of what rule they’re breaking, now.

“What up, Marky-Mark?” Raven asks, grinning. Marcus frowns.

“Miss Reyes,” he says, a little less pleasantly, “Shouldn’t you two be out, doing something?” As far as subtle “get lost”s go, Clarke’s seen better.

“Like what?” she asks, genuinely curious to hear what he comes up with.

He falters for a bit, before saying “Anything. Not here.”

It’s the closest to impolite he’s ever been, and she’s pretty sure they deserve it. To be honest, she’s surprised it’s taken him this long; they’ve been terrorizing his club for two and a half years now, Raven even longer. The endurance of his patience is commendable.

“Nah,” Raven muses, leaning back in her seat so it tips a little, the way he hates. “I like this chair. I’m comfy. Don’t really feel like moving.”

Clarke tries and fails not to laugh. Raven is at her best when she’s pissing someone off.

“You misunderstand me,” Marcus says, clearly trying not to explode. “It was not a suggestion.”

Ah, so they’re being kicked out, then. It’s not exactly new, but usually it’s preceded by something outrageous they’ve done. Playing chess in the game room is definitely their most boring crime in the country club. It’s a little embarrassing, to be honest.

Raven seems to agree, since she knocks over a table on their way out, mouthing _oops_ to Marcus before walking out the door.

“So, that was weird, right?” Clarke asks, frowning as she glances back towards the club building. It’s designed to resemble a tiki shack, but the luxury sandstone and bubble glass windows sort of throw off the effect.

“Definitely,” Raven agrees, and stops so suddenly that Clarke runs into her. She doesn’t seem to care, just switches directions and starts heading west, towards her duplex.

Raven and her mom share a two-bedroom apartment on the right side of a gray-scaled duplex. Finn and his parents live on the left side. It’s more than a little awkward.

“So, I’m thinking we camp out on the beach,” Raven decides as they climb up on her front porch. It’s smaller than Clarke’s, just the length of the house’s front wall, and really just a few slabs of concrete piled on top of each other. There used to be concrete steps too, but they broke off in the last hurricane, so now everyone has to just sort of jump up. Ms. Reyes is still at work, so Raven fishes the key out of the red enamel rabbit a few feet away from the front door.

“Ugh,” Clarke makes a face as she follows her inside. Constant proximity to sand has not made her fonder of it. “Why can’t we just sleep in the yard or something?” In the middle of Orlando, Florida, there isn’t really a lot of prime camping ground.

Raven gives her a look and rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she concedes. Clarke isn’t sure why they even bother, since this conversation always ends the same way; they compromise, and hop the fence to the club’s pool in the middle of the night, and sleep in the lawn chairs. “The pool?”

Clarke nods. “The pool.” She can write her essay before third period, tomorrow. This is more important.

They pack some supplies—two throw blankets off the sofa, some pajamas, black bean tortilla chips and sour cream dip, bathing suits and a few of the mini tequilas Raven swipes from her mom’s underwear drawer—and then wait until just after midnight to sneak out her bedroom window and hike over to the club.

The pool is around the back, facing the ocean, separated only by a chain link fence that’s seen better days. A huge chunk is missing from the middle, from the hurricane that broke Raven’s steps, and Marcus draped an American flag over the gap, hoping no one would notice. They duck under the stars and stripes, and toss their bags on the nearest turquoise lawn chair.

Clarke piles her hair up so it doesn’t get too wet—she hates how stiff the curls feel, filled with chlorine. Raven peels off her sweatshirt and gym shorts, and cannonballs in. She firmly believes that cannonballing is the only right way to enter any body of water. Clarke climbs down the ladder.

“It’s hurricane season,” she says absently, staring at the nearby waves. They seem bigger than usual, but that could just be the lack of sunlight. Or maybe it’s just her.

Raven squirts a trail of water at her and rolls her eyes. “It’s Florida,” she says, “ _Every_ season’s hurricane season.”

“Yeah,” Clarke nods, but the point is sort of ruined by the enormous crack of thunder that follows.

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Raven barks, glaring up at the sky as if trying to force it into submission. Judging by the rain that begins to pelt down on them, Clarke’s pretty sure she’s failed.

They climb out, shivering in the cold pinpricks of water, and rush to stuff their bags under the thatched overhanging roof over the closed bar. It isn’t big enough to shield them, so Clarke snatches the flag and they burrow underneath it, only half-covered by the thatch.

“What the fuck,” Raven growls, but Clarke only shivers miserably. She hopes Raven’s mom doesn’t think to check on them, because of the storm.

“It can’t be a hurricane,” Clarke says, more to convince herself than anything. “They would have said something on the news. Wouldn’t they?”

“How the hell would I know?” Raven snaps. Raven likes to pretend she doesn’t know anything about politics or stocks, but Clarke knows for a fact she has the CNN app on her phone.

“Maybe it’s like, a baby hurricane,” Clarke muses. “Too small to make the news, or anything. It probably doesn’t even have a name. How sad is that?”

“What, that the baby hurricane about to kill us isn’t named?” Raven asks dryly.

“It’s sad, Raven,” Clarke says. “It’s a _baby_ , and no one cares about it. It needs a name.”

“You’re serious,” Raven decides, shaking her head. “You’re so weird, Griffin.”

Clarke ignores her. “I like Gretchen. Or Adelaide.”

“Why do hurricanes always sound like sixty-year-old women at Bingo Night?”

“Fine,” Clarke grouses. “You pick one.”

“Cody,” Raven decides.

“Hurricanes are supposed to be female,” Clarke points out. Raven shrugs.

“Cody can be a girl.”

“Cody is not a girl name.”

Raven gives her an unimpressed look. “Says the girl named _Clarke_.”

Whatever Clarke responds with is drowned out by the sound of the latest wave crashing just at the edge of the fence. Some of the foam touches Clarke’s bare toes and she shuffles back. Sea weed litters the poolside like treacherous fingers.

“Jesus fuck,” Raven breathes. She scoots back, tugging Clarke with her, and hops up on the small wooden ledge of the bar. Clarke scrambles up after her. It’s locked up, so they can’t hide behind the counter, but at least now they aren’t stuck on the ground.

The next wave goes completely over the pool’s edge, briny seawater mixing and swirling in with the bright blue of chlorine until the water’s just a muddled green. The girls’ legs dangle over the edge of the bar, and the water reaches halfway up their calves before retreating back to the coastline.

“Our bags!” Clarke cries, watching the packs drift away on the waves. She stretches out a leg, and manages to snag the straps with her ankle, but Raven’s had been half opened, and they watch the bag of chips and little bottles of alcohol bob away. The chips drift out of sight, and the bottles dip under the pool’s surface.

Raven helps her haul the bags up to the bar, soaking themselves and the wooden counter. The flag is drenched and plastered to their arms and shoulders. The wind howls too loudly for them to hear themselves speak, so they just watch the ocean tear away at the land. Palm trees bend dangerously in the wind, but don’t break. Wood and glass rattle and creak around them. Everything feels brittle and ready to snap apart any moment. They huddle together and wait.

There are still some hours before dawn by the time the storm dies out. Everything smells like salt and rain and a little like mold. There’s seaweed stuck to their legs, and Clarke’s hair is knotted and soaked beyond repair. Sea shells and shiny glass and pebbles patchwork the ground, and sand has managed to lodge its way into every crevice, despite Clarke’s best efforts at avoiding the stuff. Her skin feels dry and scratchy, even as her hands come away slick and wet.

They empty their bags and stretch out the blankets and clothes, hoping to help them dry. Raven pokes a long piece of driftwood around in the pool, now cloudy from seawater. Clarke pads up to her. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the tequila,” Raven frowns. “I saw them go under, but I think they might have gotten caught in the hair trap or something.” As she speaks, the wood sticks on something, and she gives it an experimental tug, and then prod. Suddenly, it shoots underwater, and Raven would have been dragged with it if Clarke hadn’t latched onto her arm and pulled back.

“What the hell,” Raven breathes, sounding shaken. She stares at where the stick just disappeared. “Something _pulled_ it,” she says.

“Maybe it was the vents,” Clarke muses, trying to not freak out. She’s pretty good at not freaking out. She’s had practice. “Or, like, an undertow.”

“In a fucking _pool_?” Raven hisses, and she sort of has a point. They turn back to the water, suspiciously.

“Okay,” Clarke says, mainly just to say _something_. Mostly she’s picturing the movie poster for that Syfy flick with the giant squid. “Okay. Let’s just, uh, drain it?”

“Right,” Raven scoffs. “Let me just get out my giant-ass vacuum, and pull the plug. _How_ are we supposed to drain it?”

“Isn’t there a switch, or something?” Clarke asks, glancing around. The sky’s a sort of pale gray by now, but it’s still pretty dark out, so she has to squint. Everything’s covered in seaweed and upside down lawn chairs, so it’s sort of hard to make out. She doesn’t really know much about swimming pools; mostly, her expertise lies more in impressionist paintings, and making small bridges with Popsicle sticks.

“Okay, MacGyver,” Raven waves a hand. “Find the switch.”

Clarke is about to snap something back— _who’s idea was it to camp here_ is on the tip of her tongue—when the water starts to move, ripples spreading out to all sides, like something’s about to sprout up from the center.

 _Please don’t be a giant squid_ , Clarke thinks, right before a girl pops her head out.

Well, she _thinks_ it’s a girl. She has long dark hair, falling in ribbons far too neat and untangled for how wet they are. Her skin is pale, with a kind of greenish tint to it, but that could be the shadows. Or the water. Or something else. Her eyes are the strangest—wide, much too wide, and _oily_ , like a fish. There are several red scars or scratches on either side of her neck, like the rungs of a ladder. She’s stunning, and terrifying. She stares up at them, curiously.

“Huh,” Clarke says, and Raven makes a noise of agreement. They stare back.

Finally, the girl opens her mouth, and Clarke feels a little nauseas when she sees her teeth are in sharp little rows, like a shark’s. “I found your treasures,” the girl slurs, and then hiccups.

Clarke blinks. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think the fish-monster-girl was _drunk_.

She drifts towards the edge of the pool, towards _them_ , a little unevenly, and then reaches a hand up from the water. There are fins along her forearm, like a fish, all lavender and see-through. Her hand is small and slim and webbed. Clarke can see the veins through her greenish skin. The girl drops three empty tequila bottles in a clump at their feet, and grins bashfully. It’d be cute, if it weren’t for the fangs.

“I drank them,” she giggles, and hiccups again, and then seems to lose her balance and dip half under the water clumsily.

“Oh, Christ,” Raven mutters. “We got the alien _wasted_.”

“ _You_ got the alien wasted,” Clarke amends, staring down at the girl. “Are we sure she’s an alien?”

“What else could she be?” Ravens says, but as arguments go it’s pretty weak. She could be literally _anything_ ; it’s not like they’re experts on the aquatic supernatural lifeforms of south Florida.

“Octavia,” the girl chirps, and then squints like she’s trying to remember something. Or maybe it’s a frown, and she’s just forgotten how to do it. “And I’m a mermaid, obviously.”

“Oh, _obviously_ ,” Raven snaps, but it _is_ sort of obvious, and she just seems a little annoyed she didn’t realize it first.

“Do you need help?” Clarke asks, a little unsure. She’s not really up-to-date on mermaid mannerisms, and she doesn’t want to be rude. Raven stares at her, incredulous.

“She’s half-shark,” Raven argues. Clarke’s pretty sure she’s just feeling a little petulant about losing the tequila.

“I’m not half-shark,” Octavia scrunches up her nose, like the prospect is disgusting. “I’m half-mermaid, half-human.”

“You’re not full-mermaid?” Clarke asks, intrigued in spite of herself. It makes sense to ask all her questions _now_ , straight from the source.

Octavia rolls her eyes, as if annoyed by their ignorance. “Of course not,” she says. “Then I’d just be a fish.”

“Silly us,” Raven deadpans. “ _How_ did we not just know that? Clearly, we need to brush up on our merpeople trivia.”

“Mermaids,” Octavia corrects, seemingly oblivious to Raven’s sarcasm.

“There aren’t any male mermaids?” Clarke presses. Octavia stares at her like she’s an idiot. It’s starting to get a little annoying, to be honest.

“Of course there are,” she says. “My brother is one.”

“Where’s your brother now?” Raven asks. “Do you have his shell number? Can we call him from this rock, to come pick you up? Send a smoke signal? Write a message on a fish?”

Octavia makes a face, like she’s trying to think again, and then hiccups. For a minute, Clarke forgot she was drunk. “I don’t know,” she decides, and then slumps a little sadly, dipping her neck in the water. “He’s probably mad.”

“Why would he be mad?” Clarke asks, crouching to pat her on the head in what she hopes is a comforting way. Octavia leans into the touch like a dog, and Clarke’s hand comes back a little slimy. “You got washed out by the storm, that’s not your fault. And we won’t tell him you got drunk.”

Octavia shakes her head. “I ran away,” she tells them. “I thought the storm would carry me a little further,” she admits, glancing around. “But I got caught by this large fish trap.”

Raven snorts, and Clarke tries not to. “It’s a pool,” she says. “Not a fish trap. It’s for people.”

“But all these chemicals,” Octavia scrunches her nose in disgust. “Why would you bathe in them? I thought they were meant to torture the fish.”

“They sort of are,” Clarke admits. “People do lots of stupid things. And chlorine isn’t as bad for us as it probably is for you.”

Octavia nods, and hiccups again. “Your ambrosia has made me sleepy,” she declares, and then stares hard at Clarke. “I may need your help.”

“Why should we?” Raven asks, probably just to be contrary. Clarke glares up at her in warning, but Octavia waves the question away.

“To get the wish, of course,” she says, and Clarke snaps back to her so fast her neck burns. She ignores it.

“What wish?” she demands, and even Raven’s looking a little more interested. Octavia seems smug.

“Help a mermaid, get a wish,” she shrugs, nonchalantly. “Each,” she adds, and they’re sold.

“Well,” Raven drawls, “ _Maybe—_ ” But Clarke isn’t in the mood to argue back and forth before coming to the obvious conclusion.

“We’ll do it,” she interrupts, and ignores Raven’s sharp glare. “What do you need?”

“I should not stay in this box,” Octavia notes, looking down at the water distastefully. “Is there somewhere I can sleep? This water burns.” She holds up her arm, for them to see the rash beginning to spread along the scales there. Clarke and Raven share a look.

“Your grandma’s Jacuzzi tub?” Raven guesses, and Clarke nods.

They break into the club’s gardening shed and pull out the wheelbarrow. They fill it with ocean water, going back and forth with the buckets they find in the shed, and then wheel it as close as they can to the edge of the pool. They each wrap their hands around one of Octavia’s shoulders, and then help the mermaid into the wheelbarrow. Clarke tries not to stare at the long tail spreading down from the v of her hips, but it’s hard—it’s smooth, and the same green-lavender as the rest of her. The end hangs over the side of the barrow, but it’s still early yet, and the rest of the town is asleep.

Octavia twists her head around and around to take in the streets as they wheel her towards Clarke’s house. Their still-wet bags drip down the girls’ backs, and their feet squish in their flip flops with each step.

Clarke’s dad added on a separate apartment for her grandmother when they first moved in. It’s around the side of the house, with a ramp for her wheelchair and its own door, so getting Octavia inside isn’t really a problem. Her grandmother only stays at home over the weekends, so they don’t have to worry about sneaking through her bedroom to the en-suite tub. They help Octavia slither in, and then tip the wheelbarrow so the water splashes in after. It only comes up to her hips, so they pour a little more from the faucet. Raven offers to get the salt shaker, only half-serious, but Octavia just looks a little scandalized at the thought.

Octavia is naked from tail-up, but it’s not as weird as Clarke expects it to be. Mostly, it’s easy to ignore since she stays underwater from the shoulders down, and when she is exposed, her hair is long enough to cover up anything indecent. Plus, she’s green and covered in scales, so. It’s sort of hard to think of her as scandalous.

“Need anything else?” Clarke asks, doubtfully. There’s only so much she can do for a runaway mermaid, she’s pretty sure. “I think there’s some tuna salad in the fridge, if you’re hungry.”

“I’m not,” Octavia says, eyes droopy. She’s slurring, again.

“So, when do we cash those wishes in?” Raven hedges. “Is it like a paycheck, or do you have to give us enchanted coral or something?”

“Tomorrow,” Octavia mumbles, slipping down into the water. She doesn’t bother explaining further, before disappearing under the surface. Raven frowns down after her.

“She better not turn into sea foam while we’re gone or something,” she growls.

Clarke opens the window above the tub, just in case, and then pads out after Raven. They collapse on the daybed, drenched clothes and all. The clock blinks at her with neon green numbers—they’ve got a little over three hours before school. She groans.

“What are you going to wish for?” she whispers, and Raven snorts into the pillow.

“An immunity to exhaustion,” she grumbles. “And a lifetime supply of tequila.”

They somehow manage to wake up on time, and only scare Clarke’s mom a little when they shamble into the kitchen, like a pair of zombies that thrive on coffee instead of brains.

“I thought you were sleeping at Raven’s,” Abby says, confused, mopping up the orange juice she spilled when she jumped.

“We were,” Clarke shrugs, reaching for a caramel macchiato k-cup. Raven makes a face—she _hates_ k-cups, on principle—but she’s not fully human right now, so she grabs a hazelnut.

They check on Octavia, who threatens to drown them both if they _don’t stop shouting_ , so apparently mermaids can get hangovers, too. There’s some watery vomit on the tile that Clarke just mops up with a towel and then tosses it into the hamper before shuffling off to school.

Clarke only falls asleep three times through the day, and does manage to write the essay before the class it’s due, so she declares the day a victory. Raven is only a little less lucky, losing a game of Cold War-era Russian technology trivia to Wick, who apparently is too shocked to even gloat about it. He keeps asking Raven if she’s feeling sick or something, while Raven sulks and throws the empty gum wrappers at the bottom of her bag at him, so they get caught in his hair.

“What about Octavia’s brother?” Clarke asks as they walk home that afternoon. Raven gives her an unimpressed look, eyes squinty with exhaustion. She’s been steadily chugging cans of cherry-lime Amp all day, which is the only reason she’s still awake.

“Like, in an academic sort of way, or like, what do I think he’s like, hypothetically speaking?”

“Either,” Clarke shrugs. “Both. But also, do you think he’ll come after her?” She thinks of a mermaid, bigger and angrier and with sharper teeth than Octavia, and shudders.

“I don’t know,” Raven shrugs back. “What I _do_ know, is I’m getting that wish she promised us. Pronto.”

But when they get to Clarke’s house, shedding their bags on the porch and heading straight to her grandmother’s apartment, Octavia’s gone, and the tub is empty. Abby catches sight of them as they walk, dazed, into the kitchen.

“You know that storm last night? A wave came this far in—there was seawater all over the back bathroom. Mom must have left the window open last weekend.”

Clarke feels sick, and Raven looks more pissed off than usual. “She totally turned into sea foam and _ditched_ us!” she whispers.

“What if something happened,” Clarke whispers back. “What if she got caught, or her brother came for her? She must have run away for a reason!”

Raven looks at her, wary. “We are not starting a halfway house for domestically abused mermaids,” she says, but Clarke’s pretty much already set on finding Octavia.

“Just to make sure she’s okay,” she assures her, as they walk through the neighborhood, trying to peek into her neighbors’ pools. “And if we find her, and she is, I’ll let you threaten her mafia-style for that wish.”

“Deal,” Raven says, happily. She’s a big Scorsese fan.

In the end, they find Octavia back at the club. Raven suggests checking there, just in case, and even though Clarke’s pretty sure she just wants to piss Marcus off by putting red food coloring in the pool or something, they haven’t had much luck looking anywhere else.

The pool is closed, with a sign that says MAINTENANCE hung up on the crippled fence. There’s a man in gray coveralls, with a giant hose-machine, sucking the seaweed and briny water out of the basin. Clarke’s ready to start putting up MISSING posters, already going over the sketch of Octavia’s face in her head, when a bush just some feet away rustles. And then hisses at them.

“Psst,” the bush calls. The girls stare at it.

“What,” Raven says, and Clarke picks up a bit of metal that broke off the fence, and pokes at the leaves a little.

The bush rustles again, and Octavia’s head sprouts up from the top, looking annoyed and covered in leaves and twigs. She looks remarkably dry for a mermaid, and her gills are gone. Her eyes are a little narrower, and more human. She opens her mouth to yell at them, and her teeth are square.

“You’re human,” Clarke blurts, and Octavia glowers.

“I’m aware,” she mutters, and makes a face. “Legs are weird.” She stares at them, a little shameful. “I need clothes,” she admits.

“Oh,” Raven says, staring at the bush as if she might be able to see through the leaves, to Octavia’s hidden legs. Clarke elbows her.

“Wait here,” she tells Octavia, who huffs.

“Where _else_ am I going to go?” she argues.

Clarke leaves Raven to watch over their mermaid-turned-human girl, and slips into the club. There’s a gift shop near the front, where they sell coffee mugs and beach umbrellas, and she buys a pair of children’s board shorts with palm trees all over them, a tank top that says EVERYDAY IS SUN-DAY, and a pair of bright yellow flip flops. She carries everything back out to the hedges, where Raven is now showing Octavia how to play Plants vs. Zombies on her phone. She drops the clothes in a heap, and Octavia eyes them distrustfully.

“Scales are much simpler,” she complains, but snakes a hand through to snatch the shorts, anyway. She gets dressed in the bush, with the leaves rustling suspiciously while Clarke and Raven stand awkwardly beside it. Finally, she stands and stumbles out, clearly uncomfortable. Her shoes are on the wrong feet, and Clarke helps her switch them.

“So what happened?” Raven asks, squinting at Octavia’s new knees. There’s a layer of hair down her legs, like faint peach fuzz, which makes sense, as they’ve never been shaved.

“I have no idea,” Octavia admits. “I’ve heard of this happening, but there’s always a reason. Usually, it’s for true love.”

“True love,” Raven deadpans, clearly skeptical, but Octavia nods seriously.

“A mermaid can trade their tail for human legs for three sunsets, but by the third, they must receive true love’s kiss, or they become full-fish.”

“Not sea foam?” Raven teases, and Octavia frowns.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “How would we turn into _sea foam_? That’s dumb.” Clarke stifles a laugh.

“It’s a Disney movie,” Clarke explains. “Actually, it’s a Hans Christian Anderson story, but there’s a Disney movie too.”

“It sounds stupid,” Octavia says bluntly.

“Can you still give wishes, if you’re all humanized?” Raven asks.

Octavia frowns. “I don’t know. I can try.” She stares intently at Raven for a long moment, while the girls just stand sort of awkwardly and wait. Finally, she blinks away and heaves a sigh. “Apparently not.”

“What were you trying to do?” Clarke asks.

“Turn her hair to seaweed,” Octavia shrugs, and Raven cuts her eyes at her.

“Not cool,” she says, tugging at her ponytail instinctively. Octavia smirks.

“Okay, so what,” Clarke hedges, “We get you true love’s kiss, and you’re all better?”

Octavia hesitates. “I become fully human,” she says slowly. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t think it would happen, without the whole love thing.”

“Why’d you run away, then?” Raven asks, and Octavia fidgets, pulling at the drawstrings of her shorts. They’re a little big on her narrow hips, and hang awkwardly.

“I just wanted to see the earth,” she admits quietly. “I figured—there are lakes, and rivers. I could just live in one of those, instead of all the way out at sea, away from anything interesting. Stuck in a cave underwater, where the sun didn’t even reach.”

Clarke pats her elbow comfortingly, and nearly flinches at how _human_ she feels. Her hand comes back dry. “Maybe there’s a way to do that still,” she suggests. “We just have to do a little research.”

“It always comes back to research with you,” Raven grouses, but Clarke knows for a fact she reads up on quantum mechanics in her spare time, so she’s not sure why she’s complaining.

“What’s research?” Octavia asks, suspicious.

“Hell,” Raven chirps, heading off towards the library.

Lincoln has worked at Ark County library since Clarke’s lived here—he was a senior in high school when she moved into town, and after graduation he took the job fulltime, selling his paintings in the coffee shops downtown, and occasionally bartending. He’s basically the coolest person in Ark, and only ever seems to associate with Anya, the head librarian, and Indra, who owns Grounders Bar. He never really hangs out with anyone his own age, and has the sort of unapproachable and slightly intimidating air of a celebrity, or professional mercenary. Basically, he’s Clarke’s idol.

“Hey Clarke,” he waves without looking up from shelving foreign dictionaries.

“Hey Lincoln,” she waves back. “What’s up?” She glances at Octavia, who’d been taking everything in like an overeager kid, but seems suddenly ultra-focused on the stoic librarian. Clarke files that away for later.

“Hey Raven,” Raven quips, “What’s up, Raven? Oh, nothing, thanks for asking!” She’s never really forgiven Clarke for sort of being friends with the usually unfriendly Lincoln. Apparently she’d had an ongoing bet with Wick about it.

“Hello, Raven,” Lincoln says politely. Like a librarian to a customer, not like a friend. Raven scowls back.

“This is Octavia,” Clarke chirps, waving a hand at the girl by her side. Lincoln turns, probably intending just to give a slight nod of acknowledgement and then get back to work, but. He _lingers_ , which Lincoln never does. Clarke tries not to seem smug about it. “My cousin. Well, half-cousin. Twice removed. Or something. We met at a reunion. She’s from a small island. Weird, right?”

“Hm,” Lincoln hums noncommittally, still eyeing Octavia like he’s trying to memorize her. She’s staring up at him through her lashes, and Clarke’s pretty sure she’s blushing, but it’s sort of hard to tell.

“Holy shit,” Raven breathes, and Clarke shoves her a little to shut her up. Octavia seems oblivious, but Clarke’s pretty sure Lincoln will spook easily.

“What island are you from?” Lincoln asks, trying to seem natural about it. But since he never really _has_ conversations naturally, he sounds a little stilted and forced. Octavia doesn’t seem to notice.

“Mindanao,” she says warmly, not at all like the sassy, sort of aggressive girl from last night. “It’s in the east.”

“The Philippines,” Lincoln says with a small smile, and Raven grips Clarke’s wrist so tightly it hurts.

“He’s _smiling_ ,” she hisses, and Clarke just nods dumbly.

“I’m pretty sure we’re _in_ a Disney movie,” she whispers back. “Let’s give them some space.”

Raven stares at her, clearly wanting to stay and watch the strangeness unfold, but Clarke just tugs her away towards the marine biology section. They _did_ come to do research, after all. They’ll let Octavia work on the true love part of it. She seems to know what she’s doing.

“I’ve reread _The Little Mermaid_ like, fifteen times,” Raven groans half an hour later. Clarke rolls her eyes but doesn’t look up from her book, an encyclopedia on mythical creatures. So far all the mermaid facts are things she’d already known, from Disney or just her own extensive reading history. Nothing about how to turn a humanized mermaid back into her natural fishy state.

She googled it, but most of the results were either unconnected, or really weird.

“Look up Filipino mermaids,” Raven suggests, and Clarke does.

“They’re called _Sirenas_ ,” she reads, “And live in a flowery meadow on an island. That doesn’t sound like an underwater night-cave,” she clicks on a few more links. “There’s the _Siyokoy_ , who are _green-skinned humanoids that have scaly body coverings, webbed hands and feet, having fins on several parts of their bodies_.”

“That sounds like our resident fish person,” Raven quips.

“They’re also apparently _horrifying sea creatures with fish-like bodies and long green tentacles,_ ” Clarke continues with a frown.“ _They drown mortals and eat them._  Oh, and they’re all male.”

“Maybe that’s what her brother’s like then,” Raven muses. Clarke clicks on another link written in Tagalog. She translates it to English, and reads.

“ _It is also believed that they have the power to transform into a man. They pretend and act like a real gentleman to attract women. They seduce and impregnating them. To continue and propagate the race._ ” Clarke makes a face.

“Lovely,” Raven deadpans. “At least now we know what to expect, I guess.”

Clarke continues. “ _Also known for their creativity. They use materials like pearls, seaweeds, stones, sea shells to decorate their kingdoms._ ”

“Evil underwater Martha Stewart.”

“ _Known to be a herbivore. Protect and keep all living creatures of the same kind._ ”

“Well at least they’re vegan,” Raven shrugs. “Ready to get knocked up by Mer-PETA, Clarke?”

Clarke grimaces. “ _They can survive out of water for an hour before they can dehydrate. Dehydration for them means death._ ”

“The answer lies in coffee,” Raven decides, and then pauses. “Or alcohol. Coffee _and_ alcohol. My two great loves.”

“What about sleep?” Clarke asks.

Raven waves a hand. “Sleep is my mistress. Anything else?”

“There’s a comic book,” Clarke shrugs, clicking the link, and Raven leans forward to read over her shoulder. It’s called _Dyesebel_ , about a mermaid girl born to a mermaid-turned-human mother and human father. She goes through a lot of trials, both on land and underwater, but ultimately finds a magic conch shell that turns her human so she can marry the man she’s in love with. The story isn’t anything new, but the art is interesting, and they read the whole thing online.

“I still say we toss her in the ocean and see what happens,” Raven declares once they’re done. Clarke’s phone is on four percent battery, so she turns it off and stretches.

“We should probably go make sure they didn’t elope without us,” she decides, standing up. Lincoln and Octavia are still in the reference section, sitting at a table now, and definitely closer together than they need to be, while he reads her something in another language. Clarke doesn’t think it’s Tagalog, but she can’t be sure.

“Hey Octavia,” Clarke says a little too loudly, and they both start before turning around a little bashfully. Lincoln’s cheeks are tinged pink. It’s pretty much the best ever. Clarke tries not to grin too obviously. Beside her, Raven doesn’t bother hiding her smirk. “Ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah,” Octavia says, sounding dazed. Lincoln stares down at her a little too intensely, seeing as they literally just met.

“You’ll call me?” he asks, and Octavia grins happily.

“I’ll use Clarke’s phone,” she agrees, glancing at the girls. “Seeing as, I lost mine in the storm last night. While I was swimming.”

“You should be more careful,” Lincoln says seriously.

“Yeah,” Clarke pipes up, and Octavia glares at her.

“Definitely,” Raven agrees. “No more midnight swims for you. In fact, maybe you should just stay out of the water completely. You know, be a landlubber like us.”

“Land is great,” Clarke chirps. “We’ve got dirt, and dry clothes, and a proper sense of gravity.”

“And tequila,” Raven adds. Octavia looks ready to murder them.

“Just be careful,” Lincoln smiles—it’s small, and soft, but it’s definitely a smile. If Clarke’s phone wasn’t practically dead, she’d take a picture.

“I will,” Octavia promises, standing, and Clarke thinks it’s a little unfair that she looks so good on legs she’s had for less than a day, in clothes from a country club gift shop. There should be a law against it, or something.

Then she feels a little startled, because _she thinks Octavia looks good_. _Good_ as in, _attractive_. _Attractive_ as in, _I would definitely kiss her._

Clarke doesn’t really have much experience with crushes, which she doesn’t mention often because most sixteen year olds have kind of a lot. Mostly, she just nods along and agrees when someone mentions an actor or musician they think is hot. And usually she _does_ agree, but it’s not really something she actively thinks about. She’s certainly never felt this strongly about any of the boys at her school. Not like Raven was with Finn, or Nate is around Monty.

But this isn’t just a _nod along and agree_ sort of feeling; Clarke thinks Octavia is hot, and she would kiss her if she asked her to. She kind of wants her to.

She jumps a little when Raven pokes her in the ribs. “What’s up with you?” she asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Nothing,” Clarke says, wincing when her voice squeaks a little. Raven looks unconvinced, but doesn’t press it.

Octavia is quiet on the walk to Raven’s, which is just as well since Clarke needs time to overanalyze her own emotions. Raven carries on the conversation for all three of them, anyway.

“I guess since you have legs now, we can just say you’re a friend from school,” Raven says as they walk inside. “You can stay here for a few nights; my mom won’t care. But you have to leave during the day, so she’ll think you’re at school. You can probably just wander around, conducting special mermaid business or something. Or flirt with Lincoln at the library.” She waggles her eyebrows, and Octavia flushes.

They make microwavable jalapeno poppers, and Raven fishes out a can of sardines for Octavia. She stares at them, affronted, but after trying one of the poppers and spitting it back out in the sink, she gives in, making a face with every bite.

Raven’s mom barely questions Octavia’s sudden appearance; only gives Raven and Clarke a stern lecture about letting her know before deciding to go to Clarke’s place in the middle of the night, and then tells them to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

Octavia still seems on edge by the time they’re setting up the air mattress. Finally, Raven sits back on her heels, cuts off the air pump and snaps, “Alright, out with it; _what_ is going on with you two?”

Octavia glances at Clarke, confused, and Clarke pretends not to notice. “Nothing,” she shrugs. “It’s been a weird day.” She looks at Octavia. “You?”

Octavia bites at her cheek, debating with herself. “I think I might kiss Lincoln,” she blurts.

Clarke and Raven blink. “What,” Raven says.

“Okay,” Clarke nods, trying to be supportive. “Is that a problem?”

Octavia huffs. “It is if I don’t know what will happen when I kiss him,” she explains. “If it’s true love’s kiss, I may be human forever. And if it isn’t, I might never be able to leave the ocean again.”

“O-kay,” Raven drawls, sharing a look with Clarke, who shrugs back. Neither of them really has any experience in this sort of situation. “What happens if it’s just a normal kiss?”

Octavia pauses. “I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve never just kissed anyone, before.”

“What, _never_?” Clarke presses. She may not have had a lot of crushes, but she’s played spin the bottle once or twice. Also, truth or dare. Plus she had a boyfriend for two weeks in tenth grade, and he liked kissing. She eyes Octavia. “How old are you?”

“In human years?” Octavia deadpans, and Raven snorts. “I’m sixteen,” she says. “I think. It’s hard to tell, when you can’t really see the sun at all.”

“Well,” Raven shifts so she’s sitting cross-legged, with the three of them forming a triangle on the floor. “Wanna practice? Kissing. At least with us, you know it’ll just be a normal kiss, and nothing drastic will happen.”

Octavia looks them up and down in turn, suspiciously. “Just a normal kiss,” she echoes, and then nods. “Alright.” She turns to Raven, first. “What do I do?”

Raven just grins and leans forward to smack a kiss to her lips. It’s barely a peck, really, but Octavia still blushes. Raven nods towards Clarke. “Her turn.”

Octavia turns to Clarke, uncertain and awkward with her hands. There’s something about her wide-eyed and unsure, and Clarke reaches over for her wrists. “Put your hands on his neck,” she instructs, raising Octavia’s palm to the curve above her shoulder. “Or his face,” she moves the other to cup her jaw, and leans forward. “Let him lead, if you’re nervous. Just react,” she breathes, and then kisses her.

As far as kisses go, it’s definitely her best, and she’s pretty sure it’s because she actually _likes_ Octavia. She’d never really understood the whole appeal of tongue before, but now she presses in when Octavia sighs against her mouth. She tugs experimentally at her hair, and Octavia makes a pleased noise that Clarke swallows before pulling back. She drops her hands back to Octavia’s knees, still human and intact, and tries not to feel hopeful.

“Well, so much for a normal kiss,” Raven smirks, giving Clarke a knowing look. Octavia’s mouth is swollen, her eyes a little hazy. Clarke feels kind of proud; the mermaid looks thoroughly kissed.

“Thanks,” Octavia says, bewildered.

“Any time,” Clarke chirps, refusing to feel embarrassed. She didn’t do anything _wrong_ ; Octavia needed to practice kissing. Clarke was just helping a friend.

And if she got to make out a little with a pretty girl, well. The favor went both ways, then.

“G’night, kids,” Raven says happily and turns out the light.

Clarke wakes up to the sound of gasping, like someone struggling to breathe. She looks around in the dark, blearily, as Raven reaches for the light. It bathes the room in yellow, and they see Octavia writhing around on the air mattress, tail flopping miserably as she clutches at her gills, mouth gaping like a fish.

It’s just after midnight, and they’re still a ten minute walk to the ocean, and Clarke isn’t sure Octavia will last that long. Raven hisses, “The bathroom!” and they each grab hold of the blanket Octavia’s laying on. They drag it down the hall towards the bathtub, and then heave her—blanket and all—inside, and turn on the water.

“Salt,” Octavia gasps when the water hits her neck. She looks like she’s wilting. “I need salt.”

“Shaker’s in the kitchen,” Raven says, and Clarke runs to grab it.

They end up emptying the whole thing in the water, watching worriedly until Octavia’s skin starts looking a little less blue and a little more green-purple. She studies her arm fins, and then her tail, and counts the scales on her belly.

“Ten fingers and toes?” Raven says dryly.

“I don’t understand,” Octavia huffs, sliding back in the water and flapping her tail petulantly. “It hasn’t been three days!”

“Maybe it’s a time thing,” Clarke muses. “You turned back right at midnight; that can’t be a coincidence.”

“Mermaid by night, mer-babe by day,” Raven agrees.

“You’re like Cinderella,” Clarke muses. “And the little mermaid.”

“Now all you have to do is fall asleep for a hundred years,” Raven quips. “Or choke on an apple.”

“I’d prefer neither,” Octavia says, and scowls down at her tail. “This will make everything a good deal harder.”

“That’s how you know it’s a Disney movie,” Raven nods sagely. “Dead parents, true love’s kiss, and everything’s more complicated than it has to be.”

“She can’t stay in the bathtub all night,” Clarke points out. “What happens when your mom needs to pee?”

“She sees Octavia, screams and maybe faints a little,” Raven shrugs, and then sighs. “You’re right. Where else can she go?”

“ _She_ is right here,” Octavia says darkly.

“The county pool?” Clarke suggests, but Octavia shudders at the thought of more chlorine.

“How long do you think you can be out of water?” Raven asks, and Octavia frowns in thought.

“I don’t know. Fifteen minutes?” she guesses. “Why?”

Raven grins a little feral. “Because I have a really bad idea,” she says. “We’re gonna need a lot more salt, though.”

“This is probably your worst idea yet,” Clarke agrees, staring up at the water tower. Raven grins at her.

“Worse than letting the stray dogs in the club golf course?” she asks. Clarke nods.

“Worst. Idea. Ever.” She sighs, glancing down at Octavia, lounging in the kiddy blow-up pool they’d dragged her in. She’s staring up at the tower dubiously. “How are we going to get her up there?”

Raven shrugs. “Your dad’s the engineer,” she points out. “I’m just a mechanic.” She swings the satchel filled with containers of salt, purchased at the all-night gas station, off her shoulder. “How good are you at pull-ups?” she asks Octavia.

“Can’t I just stay in here?” she asks weakly, flicking her tail where it hangs over the pool’s side. It’s definitely too small, and anyway, she’s visible to anyone passing by.

“No,” Clarke sighs. “Forget pull-ups; how good are you at piggy backs?”

In the end, they strap her to Clarke’s back with a few of Raven’s belts, and Clarke carries her up the ladder. The water tower is smaller than most, used only by the 5,000 residents of western Ark County, but it’s still a long drop down. It takes three trips to carry all the salt up, and empty it out in the water.

“Don’t open the door for anyone but us,” Clarke warns the mermaid. “And hide if anyone comes by. If you have legs again by the afternoon, meet us at the library. If not, we’ll come here after school.”

“No talking to strangers,” Raven shouts from the ground. “And no mystery candy; there might be razors.”

“Thanks, mom and dad,” Octavia rolls her eyes, and flips underwater.

“You totally have a thing for the mermaid,” Raven accuses, once Clarke steps back on firm ground. She shrugs; it’d be pointless to deny it, since Raven’s pretty much a shark when it comes to emotions.

“I think I might be bi,” Clarke admits, and glances over to find Raven looking annoyed.

“I can’t believe I wasn’t your first girl-crush,” she grumbles. “At least this way you’ll be easier to wing-man. Plus, anyone you talk to is fair game for hazing now, so that’s cool.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but she winds her arm through Raven’s on the walk home.

“I have a date,” Octavia says, looking intense and desperate just two inches from Clarke, in the library’s doorway.

“Uh,” Clarke says, taking two steps back. “Okay,” she hesitates. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Octavia makes a noise of disagreement in her throat. She’s wearing a pair of Raven’s basketball shorts, and her tank top from yesterday. She still looks gorgeous. “I’ve never been on a date,” she says, voice nearing hysterics.

Clarke lays a hand on her shoulder, and moves her inside. Raven’s dropping their bags off at her house before coming to meet them, and Clarke suddenly wishes they’d switched roles. Raven’s much better at calming people down, either with blunt honesty or comedic relief. All Clarke really has to offer are statistics that could be read as encouraging, depending on the point of view.

“Okay, relax,” Clarke says, and then wants to hit herself. She _knows_ to never tell a stressed person to _relax_. She’s failing, already. “The odds of your first boyfriend being your true love are, like, next to nothing,” she says encouragingly. Octavia’s face crumples.

“How long does it usually take?”

Clarke sighs, and chooses her words carefully. “Well, most people aren’t usually living the plot to a Disney movie, so honestly, this date _could_ end up being very important.”

Octavia looks ready to cry. Or murder someone. Maybe both. “So what do I _do_?” she demands.

“Get some new clothes, to start with,” Clarke muses, glancing down at the bright pink flip flops. “Raven can help with that; she’s secretly really great at fashion.”

Octavia gives her a look, and glances doubtfully down at the shorts. Raven may dress like a frat boy drug dealer, but Clarke knows she keeps issues of _Vogue_ tucked back behind her bed, like a porn collection or something. The things Raven doesn’t want people knowing she cares about are strange.

Eventually, Raven shows up and after a lot of eye narrowing and heavy sighing, she agrees to help Octavia find something to wear for her date. Clarke waves them off, and then discretely watches as Lincoln floats around the library for his shift before leaving around five. Anya takes his place, and stares stonily at Clarke before sitting down at the front desk with a book and refusing to look up again. Clarke hasn’t really gotten Anya to come around to her. Yet.

Clarke is still working on her AP U.S. History homework, when someone slams into the seat beside her, definitely too loud for a library. Anya is probably plotting their death at the moment. Clarke glances up in surprise.

The someone is a boy, with brown skin and dark, messy hair, and a spider web of freckles. He’s beautiful, and Clarke is struck for the second time in two days; he’s at least as hot as Octavia. Definitely as kissable. Maybe more; it’s all in the hands.

It takes her a moment to realize that he’s angry, practically vibrating with it, and glaring down right at her. He’s wearing a striped tank top and orange board shorts. He has no shoes, which seems a little odd, but not the weirdest thing in a beach town.

“Uh,” Clarke starts, confused. She’s never met this boy before, she’s pretty sure, so she doesn’t know why he’s angry with _her_. “Can I help you?”

“Where is she,” he bites out, and Clarke straightens a little. He can only mean Octavia.

“You’re the brother,” she guesses, and he relaxes a little, clearly caught off guard.

“She told you about me?” he asks, surprised.

“She said you’d probably be angry,” Clarke nods, eyeing him. “And it looks like she was right.”

He grins, just a little, in spite of himself. He tries to hide it, but she sees. “She usually is,” he says, and then looks Clarke up and down. She tries not to squirm. “Where is she?”

“Don’t freak out,” Clarke starts, and his eyes narrow. “She’s on a date.”

He blinks. “A date?” he echoes, as if trying out the words. Clarke nods.

“A date,” she confirms. “With a great guy. He’s taking her to the theme park.”

“The theme park,” he repeats, incredulous. “Who _are_ you?”

“I’m Clarke,” Clarke says dumbly. “Clarke, uh, Griffin. I’m—we found your sister in the pool.”

“The pool?” he says darkly, and then, “ _We_?”

“Me and Raven,” Clarke explains. She probably shouldn’t be telling him all of this, but he’s kind of crowding her and staring, all dark and intense. It’s a lot to take in, and she blurts things when nervous.

“Who is Raven?” he demands, angry again, and Clarke scowls.

“None of your business,” she snaps. “Your sister is alive, and she’s fine, and she’s having a good time on her date, so just, uh, go fishing or something. She’ll be back at nine.”

“Go…fishing,” he says, shocked.

“Isn’t that what mermaids do?” Clarke says, trying to remember the Wikipedia page. Mostly she just keeps thinking about the _Siyokoy_ , and tries to discretely check his teeth.

“We don’t _fish_ ,” he scoffs, clearly insulted. Clarke shrugs; how would she know? Besides, he was being an asshole; she has nothing to feel guilty for.

“Go drown a fisherman then,” Clarke shoots, and he grins wickedly.

Clarke’s phone beeps with a text message. Predictably, it’s from Raven.

_Got the scoop on Merbabe yet?_

The boy watches as she types out a response.

_Nm but the brother just showed up_

_Wtf all the cool shit happens while I’m gone. What’s he like? Send pics!_

Clarke glances at him out of the corner of her eye, but he’s staring directly at her, looking unimpressed, so she just goes for it. “Raven wants to know what you look like,” she says, and then snaps a picture. He blinks at the flash, and glares down at her, but his eyes are all squinty so the heat’s sort of lost.

She sends the picture, with the caption _No green tentacles yet._

_Nice very nice. Good genes in that family. Keep me posted on the tentacle front, and don’t get knocked up by the Mersexpot. ;)_

Clarke tries very hard to not blush, and doesn’t succeed. The mermaid is still staring at her, looking vaguely amused, and she can’t help babbling. “So are all mermaids named after historical Roman figures,” she asks, “Or just Octavia?”

He looks stunned for a moment, and then barks out a laugh. His grin is all teeth. At least they’re rounded. “Just her,” he admits. “I’m Bellamy—I’m assuming you were trying to ask my name?” He’s even more attractive when he smiles, Clarke notes despairingly.

 _He’s smooth_ , she thinks, and then scowls. “You’re not going to seduce me and then knock me up in the bathroom or anything,” she declares, and his eyes widen but he doesn’t speak, so she keeps speaking. “I mean, I’m not opposed to kids or anything, even mermaid kids I guess, but not for like, _years_ , at least. And even then, I kind of want to be in a relationship first, you know? Maybe not married, but—anyway. No seduction, or impregnating is happening today. To me. Between us. Okay?”

Bellamy stares at her, dumbfounded, and then bursts into laughter. She’d be mortified, but she’s pretty sure he’s not laughing _at_ her, but instead because he finds her funny, which. Well, it’s nice. She’s not used to being the funny one; Raven usually takes that role. Or Wick, or even Jasper. She’s the one who reminds them to wear sunscreen, and orders pizza when they forget to pack a lunch.

“What is it you think I _do_ all day?” he asks, still grinning widely. Clarke shrugs.

“Scope out libraries and rudely confront girls about the whereabouts of your sister,” she says pointedly. Bellamy shrugs, looking bashful.

“I worry,” he says, and then, “Sorry. About being rude. I thought…not everyone is as willing to just _help_ our kind. Usually, they want something, or they catch us and put us in shows, or museums, or laboratories. The land is not a safe place for my people.”

“That’s awful,” Clarke says, trying to picture Octavia behind bars in a freak show, or strapped down to some lab table like a rat. She shudders. “Seriously, that’s shitty. But I wouldn’t—no one here would do that, to you or Octavia. Well, Raven says she’s just in it for the wish, but deep down she’s a helpful person.”

Bellamy grins wryly. “She said there was a wish?” Clarke stares, a little horrified.

“Oh God, there isn’t? Raven’ll be heartbroken. She’ll hide it by acting pissed, but I think she was hoping to pay for college with that.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “No, there is a wish,” he assures her. “What will you use it for?”

Clarke shrugs. She’s been thinking about it, of course she has, but truthfully she has no idea. Her first thought is to make it so she and Raven can somehow stay together, after the summer. She’d applied for early graduation at the beginning of the year, but was denied. That had really been her only shot, until now. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Future job security?”

Bellamy grins. “You seem like a very responsible human,” he decides.

“I am,” Clarke agrees. “Word to the wise, though; while pretending to be human, maybe don’t refer to the rest of us as _humans_.”

He nods soberly. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he promises, and Clarke very much wants to kiss him. He has a dimple in his chin, and she never knew that was a think she was into, until now. Also, freckles. The freckles are really working for her.

So maybe she has a type; tall, dark and beautiful, and turns half-fish after dark. At least she’s consistent.

“Octavia, is she,” Bellamy makes a noise of irritation. “Where does she go, at night?”

 _Ah_. “She’s still a mermaid,” Clarke assures him, and he instantly sinks down in relief. “She’s spending nights in the water tower for now.”

“Clever,” he muses. “And the man she is with, does he…?”

“Know she’s a mermaid? No,” Clarke pauses. “He’s a good guy though. He’d probably be, uh, nice about it.”

Bellamy looks skeptical, but doesn’t argue. He glances around the library. “This place, is a place of learning?” he guesses, eyeing her book on marine myths. He catches sight of the mermaid sketch she’s done on her notebook, and grins.

“Sort of,” Clarke says. “More like, a place of research, and retreat.”

Bellamy nods and then grins bashfully. “Is there a place of eating?” he asks, and Clarke laughs. She glances up to find Anya glaring at them, and if looks could kill they’d both be dead ten times over.

“We should probably go,” Clarke whispers. Bellamy follows her line of sight, and nods.

They stand and on their way past the desk, Bellamy leans towards Anya and politely says, “Your research is lovely.” Clarke manages to hold in her laughter until they get outside.

She takes him to a sushi place first, which turns out to be an enormous mistake. Apparently, the page was right in calling them herbivores. Bellamy rants loudly about the cruelty of fishing, whaling in particular, and then tries to steal the huge fish tank in the lobby, and to set them all free in the ocean.

“It’s where they belong, Clarke,” he says hotly, gripping the glass tank viciously. Management escorts them out, takes down their names, and then asks that they never return. “We certainly won’t step foot in your torture palace again,” Bellamy declares, before tugging her along the boardwalk.

She takes him to a raw-vegan café next, and they split a carrot cake made with beets and zucchini, which Bellamy practically inhales. “Why doesn’t this grow underwater?” he demands, and Clarke spews crumbs all over the table.

“How come Octavia eats fish?” Clarke asks afterwards, as they stroll along the beach. She’s taken off her shoes, and he’s carrying them crooked on one finger. He shrugs.

“She doesn’t share my ideals,” he says mildly. “Her father was a French-Canadian whaler. She knew him for a few years, before he died at sea.”

“That’s terrible,” Clarke says, but Bellamy just shrugs.

“Even if he didn’t die, he would have left eventually,” he says. “It’s hard for people to give up land for the ocean. Just like it’s hard for us to give up the water.”

“What about your dad?” Clarke asks, not bothering to care if it’s rude to ask. If it is, he’ll let her know, and won’t answer.

“He was a fisherman in the Philippines. I never knew him; he died when I was small.”

“And your mom?” Clarke asks softly. Bellamy glances down at her and then back at the waves. It’s cooler, and the sun is setting, so the beach is pretty much cleared.

“Stray harpoon,” he says. “Octavia was just eleven. I was sixteen.”

“That’s when you took her to the cave?” Clarke guesses, and Bellamy nods.

“She hated it,” he sighs. “I know she hated it, but it was the only way I knew I could keep her safe. If no one saw her, if no one knew, than nothing would be able to get her.”

“You can’t live like that though,” Clarke argues. “No one can live like that. What’s the point of just—surviving?”

Bellamy stops to look at her, smiling crooked. “What’s made you an expert in these matters?”

“Lots of daytime TV,” she says.

Bellamy smirks and looks back at the water. He does that—glances back at the waves every few moments, as if making sure it’s still there. She wonders if he’s homesick. “Be honest,” he says, sober. “Does she hate me?” He looks wrecked at the thought, and Clarke reaches to clutch his wrist without thinking. Her thumb grazes over his pulse.

“No,” she says, sure. “She loves you. She was worried you’d be mad at her.”

“Oh, I am,” Bellamy says mildly, turning his hand and sliding it up to catch hers, folding them together. He doesn’t look at her, so she stares at the sand. “She could have at least let me know—I was going out of my mind, thinking she was taken, or lost, or hurt somewhere.”

“She’s okay,” Clarke reminds him, and he squeezes her hand. She’s not freaking out about it. “She had us.”

“She had you,” Bellamy agrees, sounding fond.

 _He could still impregnate you_ , Clarke reminds herself. _Or drown you, or eat you, even if he doesn’t eat fish. He could be trying to seduce you._ And then, _it’s working_.

In the end, she has to leave to meet Raven and Octavia at the water tower, and he refuses to be left behind. “She’s my _sister_ ,” he argues, and eventually she just gives in.

“About damn time,” Raven grouses from her spot, sitting on the bottom run of the ladder. She raises both brows when she sees Bellamy. “The brother, I presume.”

“And you’re Raven,” he guesses. “Somehow I thought you’d be taller.”

“Somehow I thought you’d have a tail,” Raven shoots back with a face. “She’s upstairs. Don’t go crazy; this thing’s like fifty years old.”

Bellamy nods, and turns down to Clarke. “Thank you,” he says lowly, tugging on a curl so his fingers graze her chin. Then he starts to climb.

Once he’s safely inside, Raven turns to Clarke, eyes bright and knowing. “I was wrong earlier,” she decides. “You don’t have a thing for _the_ mermaid; you have a thing for mermaids, generally. Weird kink, dude.”

Clarke shrugs, still a little dazed by Bellamy’s existence. She’s pretty sure her hair smells like him, now. Like saltwater and oranges. “They’re hot,” she defends, and Raven shrugs.

“You’re totally having a fish baby,” she declares, leading the way back into town.

Clarke glances back at the tower, watching it disappear behind houses as they keep walking. “Yeah,” she says, “Maybe.”

The next day is Saturday, specifically the third Saturday of the month, which means one thing.

“Clarke, it’s the semi-semi-quarter nationals,” Wick whines, sounding tinny through the telephone. She woke up to the ring of the house phone, which was a little odd because _no one_ calls the house phone except for the hospital where Abby works, and she’s _at_ work. But apparently Wick has the number, for whatever reason. Probably Raven, being insufferable.

“It’s a _practice_ for the semi-semi-quarter nationals,” Clarke corrects around a yawn. “And anyway I’m not even on the team.”

“Maya’s sick for the day,” Wick says impatiently. “Strep throat or something. So we’re down a player. Clarke, please. Your planet needs you.”

“Why can’t you call Raven?” Clarke whines back, petulant. She likes to spend her Saturdays wearing her pajamas, eating cereal straight from the box, and preferably while in bed.

“I _tried_ ,” Wick huffs. “But she and her sausage fingers have plans, so I’m calling you and your dainty fairy-like fingers. You’ll be our secret weapon.”

“Again,” Clarke points out, “It’s a _practice_. What time?”

“You’re a peach,” Wick declares. “Eleven-thirty. I wanted to give you time to primp, though you don’t need it, as you’re naturally beautiful. See you!” He hangs up with a click, and Clarke sighs.

She’s barely hung the phone back on its hook, when the doorbell rings. Her mother’s at the hospital, her father’s at a construction site, and her grandmother’s taking a nap in her apartment. Clarke’s pretty sure the only other person who knows where she lives is Raven, and Raven started just walking in back when she was a sophomore. Confused, Clarke tugs on a sweatshirt and pads downstairs.

Bellamy Blake is standing on her front porch. He’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday, still barefoot, hair somehow even messier. Same dimpled chin and lopsided smile. Clarke still wants to kiss him.

“Um,” she says, “Hi?” His grin falters.

“Is this not appropriate?” he asks, horrified. Clarke snorts.

“It’s fine,” she assures him, stepping back. “Come in, come in. I just, uh. I’m not dressed.” She watches as his eyes dip down to take in her tiny pink sleep shorts, bared legs, and baggy sweatshirt in a shoddy attempt to cover up the fact that she’s not wearing a bra. As he stares, his eyes grow dark and heated. Clarke’s mouth runs dry.

“You look fine,” he says hoarsely. Clarke flushes at the sound.

“Well, thanks,” she says dumbly. “But I’m going to get changed, anyway. Just make yourself comfortable, I guess. There’s food, and water in the kitchen. We have juice, and stuff. I’m pretty sure my dad left the newspaper on the table or something. Anyway.” She awkwardly turns and stalks upstairs to her bedroom.

When Clarke comes downstairs, she finds Bellamy nursing a cup of her mother’s green power juice, and reading the Saturday comics. It’s a good look on him, she thinks, but then again; she thinks _every_ look’s a good look on him.

He looks up as she walks in, and flashes a wry smile. “I’m not the best at reading your language,” he admits, and she shrugs.

“I probably can’t read yours,” she says. “Want an Eggo?”

“A _what_?” he asks, nose scrunching up. Clarke snorts and fetches the giant yellow box from the freezer.

“Oh man,” she says, grinning as she pops them into the toaster, “You have not _lived_.”

They spread blackberry jam on their waffles, and she reads him the punchlines to the comics, and then explains them, and he tells her a little bit about his home in the Philippines, before his mother died and everything changed.

She decides to take him to bowling practice, because he seems to want to spend time with her, and Wick can deal with an extra player since he called on such short notice. She grabs her bowling bag—because even though she’s not an official member of the team, she seems to play with them at least every other month—and the keys to her dad’s Jeep.

Bellamy eyes the car warily, but ultimately agrees to trust her and slides into the passenger seat. “It stinks of metal,” he wrinkles his nose and Clarke laughs, turning the radio all the way up. Bellamy bobs along to the beat, even though she’s sure he can’t understand the words. He’s so graceful it makes her teeth hurt, and she has to look away.

The bowling alley is only a twenty minute drive from her house, and they get there in fifteen.

“That was nightmarish,” he growls, shooting out of the car as Clarke cackles. She may have a bit of a lead foot. He shakes his head at her in disgust.

“You’ll have to wear shoes,” Clarke warns as they walk in. She sees Wick’s team instantly, crowded in the far corner with their bright pink and bright blue team shirts. Clarke slips hers on over her tank, and Bellamy grins down at the back of it.

“Team Princess?” he asks, and Clarke winces.

“Everyone voted on monikers a few months ago. I’m uh, Team Princess. Raven’s Team Genius, and Wick is Team Rock Star. Everyone’s is different.”

“Why _princess_?” he asks, and Clarke flushes.

“I’m kind of rich,” she mumbles, and Bellamy makes a noise of understanding.

She orders their shoes, guessing his size because he doesn’t know. The first two are too small, and finally Monty’s mother’s cousin’s friend just eyeballs Bellamy’s feet and pulls out a pair of size fourteens. They fit perfectly.

 _Size fourteen_ , Raven mouths from where she’s leaning against the counter. She’s wearing a Sons of Anarchy tank instead of her blue bowling shirt.

“I thought you were busy?” Clarke asks, annoyed. Why is she here, then?

Raven shrugs. “I’m meeting Octavia at the salon later.”

Clarke narrows her eyes. “Raven Reyes is voluntarily going to a salon,” she says, disbelieving. Raven shrugs again.

“It was that, or have to look at Wick’s stupid mug all day,” she says. Wick, from across the room, yells an indignant _You_ like _my stupid mug!_ Raven ignores him.

“Hello again,” Bellamy nods to Raven politely, and Clarke can’t help feeling smug that he only seems to be comfortable and affectionate around her.

“What up, Merbro?” Raven drawls with a grin.

“When are you going to stop doing that?” Clarke asks with an indulgent smile.

Raven shrugs. “When it stops being funny. So, never.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and tugs Bellamy over to the team. “Come on,” she says happily. “I’ll teach you how to bowl a spare.”

She introduces him as Bellamy, with no backstory or long-distance relations, and everyone just sort of nods and accepts it. They’re all varying levels of intense about bowling, but Wick’s really the only one that gets ridiculous about it.

Bellamy, it turns out, is absolutely _awful_ at bowling. His balls make it a few feet before drifting into a gutter, every time. He doesn’t seem to particularly care, probably because he doesn’t understand the game’s purpose, anyway. He does seem a little annoyed whenever the kindergarten class three aisles down keeps getting strikes.

Monty, whose pink shirt says Team Sweetheart, offers to get Bellamy one of the little kid sliders, but he refuses. Clarke bowls another spare, and when she turns around, Bellamy offers his hand, palm facing the floor. She stares at it for a moment, before Jasper walks up and folds Bellamy’s hand into a fist, and then bumps it.

“Which is the five-fingers-high one?” Bellamy asks, confused, and Jasper shakes his head.

“Dude, what planet did you come from?” he asks, exasperated, and teaches him how to high-five.

By round five, everything’s usually died down a bit, and people are sitting out while others are doubling up, trying out different spin tricks, and weights. Wick moonwalks all the way down to the pins. Jasper pushes his ball down with a broom, like some weird variation of curling. Clarke and Bellamy sit off to the side, eating pizza—well, Clarke’s eating pizza, while Bellamy picks the cheese off his crust.

“How can you stand it?” he asks, genuinely curious. “It came from another living creature, with its own mind, and dreams.”

“This cow’s dream may have been to make the cheese on my pizza. Her loss is my gain.” Clarke takes a large bite, letting the ropes of cheese stretch into a ladder between her mouth and the slice. Bellamy shakes his head, and reaches out to tear at the strings with his straw.

“Disgusting,” he says, delighted. Clarke smirks; even the classiest herbivore mermaid likes gross, gooey things.

“So how’d you two meet?” Wick asks, waggling his eyebrows. It’s unsettling, how alike he and Raven are, sometimes.

“The library,” Clarke grins, and Bellamy grins back.

“That’s cute,” Monty smiles pleasantly, while Jasper scoffs beside him.

“Typical,” he teases. “You’re such a nerd, Clarke.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. “But Bellamy named his little sister after the sister of an Ancient Roman Emperor.” Bellamy flushes.

“That’s cute,” Murphy deadpans, snatching a pizza slice from Jasper’s plate. “Guess you two deserve each other.”

“Yeah,” Clarke looks over to find Bellamy staring back at her, cheeks still faintly pink. “Hopefully.”

Jasper pretends to gag.

She drives them to Raven’s house, so she can pick up her phone charger, left behind the night before. Then they walk down the beach, towards the boardwalk salon.

“How’d you find me, anyway? And the library,” Clarke asks suddenly, and Bellamy glances up from where he’s unearthing a cracked turtle shell. He stands, and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Your smell,” he admits, closing in until she has to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “You smelled like Octavia, like our waters.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, and licks her lips, hesitant. “What do I smell like, now?” she asks, breathes, really, because he’s so close she can’t really think.

Bellamy’s eyes darken even more, and she’s not sure how that’s possible. He lowers his head until it’s resting against hers. “ _Mine_ ,” he says, growls, and closes his eyes to breathe in. He shifts, pressing his nose against her face, stroking along her hair and leaving open-mouthed kisses against her temple and scalp. The arch of her ear. The edge of her cheek.

“What happens if I kiss you?” she asks, gasping when his hands find the dip of her spine and pull her against him. She doesn’t really want to force him to give up the water, and if they kiss and nothing happens, what does that mean? That she’s not his true love? She’s not sure she wants that, either.

“Let’s find out,” he groans, and bends to press his mouth against hers, but she raises her palm to his lips.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” she says shakily, taking a step back. He lets go of her sides, and watches as she steadies her breathing. “When it happens, I want you to be sure.”

He arches a brow, eyes still dark and heavy. “ _When_ it happens?” he repeats.

Clarke nods. “When,” she agrees. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” she says, only a little nervous.

But Bellamy’s grin is blinding. “I knew you’d be difficult,” he says, all affection, and slings an arm around her as they walk.

They find Octavia like that, and she takes one look at them before smirking “Well, alright.” She points at Clarke knowingly. “But I still kissed you first,” she declares. “Remember that.”

“Wait, what?” Bellamy looks down at Clarke, and she flushes. “When did this happen?”

“She wanted to practice for the real thing,” Clarke defends. “Raven kissed her too.”

“Leave me out of this,” Raven calls from her dome hair dryer. She’s flicking through some sort of magazine about guns.

Octavia picks her hands up from two bowls of water, and wiggles her fingers at them so her green-purple fingernails glitter in the light like fish scales. “Like em?” she chirps.

“I wonder where you got the idea for that color scheme,” Bellamy says dryly.

“How was your date with Lincoln?” Clarke asks, and Bellamy’s arm on her shoulders goes a little tense before relaxing again. She raises her hand to fold it in the one by her shoulder, and he squeezes hers back.

Octavia beams. “He got me a fish,” she says happily, and Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“A _fake_ fish,” he adds. It’s neon orange, and horrific. It takes up practically the whole basin.”

Octavia sticks her tongue out at him. “A Nemo fish,” she tells Clarke. “I’ve never heard of the species, but apparently they’re very popular here.”

“Nemo is a Disney character,” Clarke explains. “He’s actually a clownfish.”

“Ha,” Bellamy says smugly. “I told you!” Octavia sighs at him and turns to Clarke with a frown.

“You can keep him,” she decides. “I don’t want him anymore. He’s yours.”

Clarke glances up as Bellamy grins down at her. “Yeah,” he agrees, and she flushes. From the hair dryer, Raven loudly clears her throat.

They leave Raven and Octavia at the salon—Octavia because she’s meeting Lincoln for dinner, and Raven because she’s meeting Wick at his place later for a Skyrim marathon—and pick up Jake’s Jeep, before driving back to Clarke’s house. Her parents are still working, so they spend the rest of the day sprawled out on the daybed.

Bellamy’s legs are in her lap while he reads her history textbook, periodically asking what certain words mean. She’s drawing starfish across his calf.

“Do you believe in the whole true love’s kiss thing?” Clarke asks, and he puts down the book to look at her.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “They teach it to us like a sort of religion. I think it has to be something, that turns us human or mermaid for good. My mother believed in it.”

“Octavia believes in it,” Clarke points out, and Bellamy nods.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” he asks, sitting up a little on his elbows. Clarke shrugs.

“Octavia said true love’s kiss turns you human, if you get it within three days on land. And if you don’t, then you can never leave the ocean again.”

Bellamy nods a little. “That’s what we’re told,” he says carefully. “As for what I believe,” he reaches out to tug on one of her curls and grins. “I believe in kissing—I don’t really care if it’s true love or not.”

Clarke laughs, and shoves at his legs, but he catches her arm and tugs her to lie down beside him. Their legs tangle, his shorts stiff against her thighs. He raises a hand and curls it around her head, just letting it lay there, warm and heavy. She watches his eyes change color in the light—gold to amber to hazel to brown and back again. She’s not sure if it’s the lighting, or if it’s a mermaid thing.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, and grins lazily. “I really want to kiss you.” He doesn’t make a move to close the gap between them, though.

Clarke shuffles towards him until her nose is touching the bone of his cheek. “You’re beautiful,” she whispers back, “And I really want you to kiss me. But—”

“You’re worried for me,” Bellamy grins, rubbing his nose against hers. “We can pretend,” he suggests, tilting his head so his mouth is warm and wet against the skin between her cheek and lips.

“Okay,” she sighs, and they breathe each other’s air for a long while—not kissing, or moving, or pressing together; just breathing in and out until they’re dizzy.

“Oh,” Abby says, looking stricken in the doorway. Clarke wrenches away from Bellamy, who’s looking dazed and thoroughly wrecked. She can’t look much better.

“Mom,” she starts, sounding pained. Bellamy’s hand is still caught in her hair, and he softly disentangles it.

“No, it’s alright,” Abby says, face red and blotchy with embarrassment. She’s not meeting Clarke’s eye. “Are you, um. Is your friend staying for dinner?”

Clarke glances at Bellamy, who’s looking to her for direction. His other hand is still tangled in hers. She nods back to her mother. “Yeah,” she decides, and Bellamy grins. Clarke sits up and he follows. “Mom, this is Bellamy. Bellamy, my mom.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Bellamy says, lilted, and stands to shake her hand.

“Likewise,” Abby says. “Clarke, set the table?” She steps back into the house with a pointed look at her daughter.

“Well,” Clarke says once she leaves. “That was a disaster.”

“I think it went well,” Bellamy chirps as she flops back on the bed with a groan.

Dinner isn’t as terrible as Clarke is expecting—mostly, her parents ask Bellamy a lot of questions about his home life and school, which he answers with a surprising amount of finesse. He talks about Octavia a lot, and his mom, but strays away from education and childhood homes. Instead, he says he travels a lot, and English is his third language. By the end of the meal, the Griffin’s are thoroughly charmed by Bellamy Blake, and he seems very pleased with himself.

“Your parents like me,” he says, smug, when she walks him out. The sun is nearly all the way set, which means he has to get going if he wants to make it to the tower in time. That doesn’t stop him from bending to press a series of quick, wet kisses like a necklace along her collar bone. She gasps and arches against his mouth, and he smirks. “ _You_ like me,” he teases.

“You’re the worst,” Clarke says, but it’s ruined by how shaky her voice is. Her hands are fisted in his hair, and he whines when she tugs on the curls. It’s very satisfying.

“You like me,” he repeats, softer, and stands to grin down on her. He tucks a curl behind her ear and thumbs at the skin of her cheek.

“I like you,” she agrees. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Something shutters in his eyes, but then it’s gone and he’s smiling. “Tomorrow,” he agrees, kisses her hair, and heads into the dusk.

Clarke’s still awake around midnight, when there’s a clattering against the door to the screen porch. She stands and flicks on the light, only to find a very fished-out Bellamy Blake suffocating in a heap of scales on the front steps. She quickly unlatches the door and drags him in. He’s soaking wet, but breathing ragged, while his gills shrivel with each breath. He looks like Octavia, with scales and fins down his body, but his tail is longer and a deep red-brown. She runs a hand down the side without really meaning to, and finds it slick like a fish.

“What’s wrong?” she demands. “Why aren’t you in the tower?”

“Third—day,” he gasps, and then curls in on himself a little in pain. Clarke stares, dumbfounded. She’d assumed he’d come onto land the day he found her in the library, but she’d never bothered to make sure.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks, because anger is easier to deal with than fear. She reaches for the glass of water by her bed and carefully pours it around his gills. They seem a little brighter for it, but still pained.

“You—worry,” he says, and she hits him. Only a little. He grunts softly, and then tries to laugh, but it comes out in a series of coughs instead. And then he goes still.

“Bellamy?” Clarke asks, prodding his chest. His gills aren’t moving. He’s not making any sound. “Bell!” she says into his ear, to no response. She sits up on her knees, takes a breath, and kisses him.

Nothing happens.

“Well, that was a waste,” she grumbles, and snatches a quilt from the bed. She rolls him onto it, and drags him out to the Jeep that way. She bundles him into the trunk and speeds the whole way to the beach, driving down across the sand, all the way to the waterline. She hops out, still barefoot and in her pajamas, and drags him down and into the ocean, quilt and all. It was an old blanket, and hopefully her parents won’t notice.

For a long moment, he doesn’t surface, and she’s about to dive in after him and drag him out, when she sees a flash of red against the green-blue of the water. He doesn’t come back out, so she sits down on a dune to wait. She stares out at the ocean where she’d last seen him, squinting when her eyes get tired, until the sky turns pale yellow with the first minutes of dawn.

She’s watching when he walks out, completely naked, dragging her drenched quilt by one corner. He glances up and catches sight of her, and wraps the blanket around himself before falling down beside her.

“You’re an idiot,” she snaps.

He looks down at her softly. “Yeah,” he says, and kisses her.

It’s different than the one she gave Octavia. He leads, and she reacts. She curves up to him, and he curls down, and his hair is dripping cold water down her back and shoulders, and his hand is cold and wet in her hair, but his mouth is warm against hers. His tongue licks the roof of her mouth until she moans, and the next time she’s aware of her surroundings, she’s in his lap with her legs on either side of his hips.

“I kissed you,” she gasps against his lips, and he smirks.

“Pretty sure I kissed you,” he mumbles, and she shakes her head and sits back on his knees without thinking. The new angle presses them together in a decidedly new way, and they both moan at the feel.

“Last night,” she says shakily. “You were dying, and I kissed you. Nothing happened.”

“It doesn’t usually.” His voice is ragged, and his hips thrust up instinctively, and she rubs back against him. “ _Christ_ ,” he hisses, stilling her with a hand on her thigh. “It doesn’t happen until the next night,” he explains. “That’s when you know for sure.”

Clarke stares at him, mind hazy from exhaustion and the adrenaline rush, and the warmth of him between her thighs. “So, tonight?” she asks, just to make sure. He grins back at her.

“Tonight,” he nods, and kisses her again.

“It’s Sunday,” Clarke speaks into his mouth. “Octavia’s going to tell Lincoln today.”

“I’ll be there,” Bellamy growls. “To make sure he… _reacts_ well.”

“ _We’ll_ be there,” Clarke amends, and he sucks at her lower lip.

“Please stop talking about my sister,” he whines, and she giggles, pressing her face to his neck. She’s making out on the beach with a _mermaid_. This is her life, now. It’s surreal.

“So, we just wait until sunset?” she asks, shivering, and he runs a hand down her spine to warm her up. “What do we do in the meantime?”

Bellamy grins at her wickedly, licking a hot stripe up her neck and then biting her jaw. “I can think of a few things,” he breathes.

 _Okay_ , Clarke decides, sometime in between when he kisses her again, and when they sit back on the beach hand in hand to watch the sunset, _Maybe this summer won’t be so bad, after all_.


End file.
